


How well I knew Her not

by middlemarch



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Christmas Presents, F/M, Gen, Secrets, Sisters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-03 16:10:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8720260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: Once there had been an orange in the bottom of every stocking.





	

“Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents!” Alice exclaimed. She’d tied a bright red ribbon in her hair, a nod to Dixie and the season, as she couldn’t find any holly, and she looked the perfect picture of a proper young lady, except for her pout.

She and Emma were winding bandages in the corner of the small Confederate ward and the men were largely occupied by afternoon naps, natural or induced by a few drops of laudanum. The December day was dull and winding bandages even duller and Emma wasn’t sure why Alice insisted so on coming with her to Mansion House when she grumbled and grimaced about every task other than flirting with the healthier Rebel soldiers. The boys needed whatever help they could get, even Alice’s scant, distracted nursing, so Emma didn’t try to turn her sister away, but she worried over it. She’d always been able to divine Alice’s motives in the past and now she was faced with a mystery she could not solve. She had suspicions, but they were too terrible to give any credence to, she told herself that again and again though the repetition didn’t seem to be helping. She tried praying, but when she folded her hands and lifted her face to Heaven, her inner eye only saw Mr. Hopkins’s face regarding her steadily, curiously and that was its own trouble. It seemed to be a relief of sorts to hear Alice whine about the poor holiday, something familiar and manageable.

“Alice! For shame! Just think of all our poor boys here, so far from their families and wishing for a visit, a letter, some little token from home—and you’re distraught because Father Christmas won’t be showering you with gifts!” Emma replied in a low voice. 

Christmas for the Greens was a time of carefully cultivated excess, gifts gaily wrapped in bright papers and ribbons, the tree trimmed with baubles and silver-gilt candle-holders with tiny, slender tapers lit, a flock of fairies in the fragrant boughs, fir garland and clusters of mistletoe and the crystal punch bowl near over-flowing, bright laughter when the door opened, neighbors greeting each other with extra well-wishes. Her father would give them all a special Christmas blessing and her mother and Belinda would look the other way when Frank stole a kiss (or two) in an alcove, twining one loose curl around his finger. This year, there would be none of that and they mustn’t ever show they missed it, mustn’t let the Yankees know how much the War had taken, was taking. 

“It’s dreadful to be poor…and all because of those horrid Yankees,” Alice replied, hardly chastened at all. She was taking care to disguise it, but Emma saw her scanning the room, the hallway, looking for something. Something she ought not be seeking, if Emma had the right of it, and though she couldn’t claim to have Belinda’s unerring sense for mischief in the making, still she knew when something was the matter. If only it was the lack of presents, the roasted goose with its chestnut dressing, the clutch of silk ribbons in a stocking or even Tom Fairfax’s tenor in the caroling.

“We’ve got Papa and Mamma and each other, and our Cause. That’s enough for any good Southerner.” Emma had meant it to be a firm but gentle remonstrance, but it had come out in an exasperated hiss and Alice responded to the tone first, rolling her eyes and shrugging, her curls catching the last of the daylight.

“I don’t believe you suffer as I do. Why, you’ve still Frank and I’m very nearly a widow. You can’t know how that feels,” Alice sighed. It was true, Emma knew that, but she also knew Alice wasn’t being driven to whatever end only to mend her sadly broken heart. It sometimes seemed General Lee should call for a new battalion made only of widows and he’d find a quick victory would be his to savor.

“To be so sorely grieved and then to see those Yankees—in our house, in Papa’s fine hotel, strolling up and down our streets as if they owned them… and even that Nurse Phinney, why she’d work us to the bone if she could, how she plagues me!” Alice added. Alice kept prattling on and her blue eyes looked guileless, as if she were only put out with a strict governess, but the uneasiness nestled in Emma’s own uncertain heart was growing stronger and more tenacious, a twining, thorny vine that bound her as it became more clearly defined. She’d once felt as Alice did but she’d learned in her time at Mansion House, so many lessons from so many teachers. Was Alice a ready pupil?

“There are good among them, Alice, and well you know it. Now, you ought to hush and try winding the bandages, not just letting them roll about on that dirty floor,” Emma said. “I shouldn’t like to have to bring them back to the laundress because you were inattentive, you goose.”

“Perhaps this might help,” Nurse Mary said. She’d walked up to them without their notice and Emma wondered how long she’d heard the conversation. She felt ashamed of her sister, to think Nurse Mary had heard the insults, the petty disappointments of a pair of formerly rich misses, had seen the heap of bandages barely diminished in the basket while the day shortened. She tried to think of what to say, what apology she could make while yet saving face and not inciting Alice to some other, indecorous remark but she was interrupted.

“You see, my sister has sent me a little gift for the season and I won’t enjoy it half as much unless it’s shared…it’s not such a bad thing to wish for a gift. Merry Christmas, Miss Alice,” Mary said and handed Alice something in a clean handkerchief, marked with MPvO in one corner in pale grey silk, finely edged with delicately tatted lace. She smiled at them both and nodded, then walked back into the larger ward, her graceful silhouette half-shadowed as she stopped beside a bed to speak with a sick boy. What a soft look there had been in Nurse Mary’s dark eyes and yet also something else, a sadness, a worry that she would never voice. Perhaps in a letter to her sister, Emma thought, perhaps Nurse Mary had that avenue available.

“Why, I never!” Alice blurted out, looking at the center of the linen square; there were sweets they hadn’t had in months, humbugs and peppermint stick and even some quaintly shaped marchpane, a peach, a cunning fox’s head, a plump, pink heart.

“Why should she do it? Emma?” Alice asked. 

Emma could think of many reasons, many moments with Nurse Mary that led, like a string of matched pearls, from then to now. It was her way, Nurse Mary, to hope and give and jolly you along, not content to offer words alone but always some action that might tip the balance to the better. She thought to say something like that to Alice but was stopped by her sister’s expression, as if Alice had realized something that was at odds with her convictions and she was trying to decide whether she must admit it or might discard it. No matter how hard she looked, Emma couldn’t see the answer.

“I suppose she said the reason why. And now, you shan’t complain so much about not getting anything, so I’ve my own present as well…though I do fancy that lemon humbug,” Emma said and reached over quickly to pick up the candy.

“Oh, you!” Alice said, laughing, her old winsome laugh that woke the men around them to a world that was better than their dreams, a charming memory and a happy promise, a comfort to Emma that perhaps she was wrong or that only something small must be added to make a great change. She popped the candy in her mouth and enjoyed the sunny sweetness of the gift.

**Author's Note:**

> Here is my first Mercy Street Holiday 2016 Advent prompt submission (whew!) for the prompt: gifts. I decided to focus on the women and mine some of the possibilities from Season 2. I also had great fun borrowing from the first chapter of Little Women. Apologies to anyway missing their dose of Jed Foster.
> 
> The title is from Emily Dickinson.


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